


In Search Of A Word: A Symphony Of First Times

by queenfanfiction



Series: concertmaster!Sherlock AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Infidelity, Kinkmeme, M/M, not the one you think, prompt!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenfanfiction/pseuds/queenfanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a new concertmaster at the London Symphony, and John Watson is starting to fall a little bit in love with both the music and the man making it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Search Of A Word: A Symphony Of First Times

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В поисках слова](https://archiveofourown.org/works/388907) by [bonaqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonaqua/pseuds/bonaqua)



> Written for a concertmaster!Sherlock AU [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5880.html?thread=21134328#t21134328) from LJ's SherlockBBC_Fic kinkmeme. The prompt was just TOO APPROPRIATE for me to pass up. Oh look, an excuse for a classical musician to geek out about her chosen profession—in _fandom!_ (And it comes with a playlist!)
> 
> Betas: NancyBrown rescued me from THE SLASH CLICHÉS OF DOOM, and Blue_Eyed_1987 needs a medal for Britpicking this overgrown monstrosity, omg.
> 
>  **ETA:** There are now some slight edits because F#@ & CODING OMG.
> 
>  **ETA Part the Second:** This story has now been translated into [Russian](http://pay.diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p170073454.htm). o___o Thank you so much, [_nastya_](http://www.diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p170073454.htm)!
> 
>  **ETA III:** ...and would you believe this story's now made it into _[Chinese](http://mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=69240)_ (note: userID  & password required to view). Many thanks, Krisen!

_Music is love in search of a word.  
—Sidonie Gabrielle_

* *

The first time John Watson ever laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, it was all Sarah's fault.

Technically, it was the fault of the rich old lady who'd nearly died in the waiting room were it not for John resuscitating her and performing her much-needed operation himself. Said old lady was so grateful for the care she'd received that she donated a dozen tickets to the London Symphony for the doctors on call to take for themselves as a reward.

John appreciated the gesture, but he really wasn't into classical music. And he would have left the tickets for the rest of his colleagues to claim had Sarah not appeared in his office with a pair of tickets fanned between her fingers.

"Tonight at eight at Barbican Hall," she announced, slapping down the slips of paper like so many winning lottery tickets. "It's the opening concert of the season, John, and the programme's just lovely. Clear your schedule."

John sighed, but he obediently picked up his phone to start cancelling his patients for the afternoon. A year and a half of marriage with Sarah was enough for him to know that she was a stubborn woman with a will of iron when she put her mind to it, and John found it far easier to bend than to break in most situations.

That was how he found himself dressed to the nines, in the suit he hadn't used since their wedding, and perched in one of the highest boxes of Barbican Hall with naught but the handrails to keep him from tumbling to his death on the stage below. Sarah was seated beside him, humming to herself as she flipped through her programme, given to her by an usher on their way in.

"They have a new concertmaster," she said, half to herself. "Wonder if he's any good..."

John had never been one to pay attention to higher culture before he'd been in Afghanistan, much less after he'd come back and met Sarah, and the unfamiliar term flew past him almost before he could catch it. "Concertmaster?"

"Yes, the one who sits in the first chair of the violins." Sarah pointed out the empty chair directly beside the conductor's podium. "He comes out first, tunes the orchestra, plays solos, that sort of thing. See, there he is now!"

While she'd been speaking, the house lights had dimmed, leaving the stage even more brightly illuminated than before; the musicians who had been quietly warming up fell silent as a lanky, dark-haired man strolled through their numbers amidst growing applause from the audience as he made his way towards the front of the stage. The man only gave a curt nod before turning back to the orchestra and waving his bow for the oboist to play—

—and John leaned forward in his seat and slowly inhaled, only then realising that he had stopped the automatic action of breathing at some point.

John quickly shook himself off and joined the rest of the applause as the conductor took the stage, shaking hands with the concertmaster before leaping onto the podium and bowing deeply to the audience. Sarah was one of the last ones to stop clapping, and only after the last of the applause had faded away did the conductor raise his baton and begin to lead the orchestra in their first piece, an overture by Rossini that John was (unsurprisingly) unfamiliar with.

John dozed off several times, each time jolted awake by a timely nudge from Sarah's elbow, and he hardly paid attention when the piece finished and the audience politely applauded at the end. He and Sarah were alone in their box, so it wasn't like anyone was going to notice his complete disinterest in classical music. Hell, it might even convince Sarah not to take him to the symphony anymore.

And then the second piece started, Strauss' "Don Juan" according to the programme, and John started wide awake as the first violins—under the lead of their new concertmaster—simply _soared_ above the rest. The technical facility was amazing, with each player in near-perfect synchronicity in both fingering and bowing, every note in every run played with crystal-clear accuracy.

And as if that weren't enough, when the first section of flash-and-bang had passed, the rest of the violin section laid down their instruments while the concertmaster tossed his head free of his dark curls, raised his violin to his chin, and began to play—nay, with his fiddle, he began to _sing._

John held his breath as he watched the man below him play, his bow caressing the strings tenderly and causing the violin to weep notes of pure golden tone. The man played with his head bowed, eyes away from the conductor (who nevertheless matched him beat for beat with his baton) and away from the music, rocking back and forth in his seat as the melodic violin solo led him in a dance all his own.

And then, all too soon, the man lifted his bow from the string, the conductor leaned forward and cued the rest of the section behind the concertmaster into their next entrance, and the moment was gone.

John fell back against his seat, mentally gasping from the wash of emotions and adrenaline spiking through him. Sarah looked over and smiled at him. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she whispered under the loud calls of the brass.

 _Yes,_ John thought, dazed. _Yes, he is._

When the piece was finally over, the audience's response was far more enthusiastic than before, and a cheer went up when the concertmaster stood to take an extra bow. Many people rose from their seats to give the man a standing ovation, and John was more than happy to follow suit.

"So," Sarah said as they left the concert hall that night, leaning on John's arm as they worked their way through the crowd pressing all around them towards the Underground. "Did you like it?"

"Oh, yes." John squeezed her hand. "Very much."

* *

The first time John Watson actually met Sherlock Holmes, Sarah punched him (Sherlock, not her husband) in the face.

The meeting wasn't meant to be a confrontation of any sort, nor had the meeting itself been planned to begin with. John had simply purchased a pair of seats for a London Symphony concert that just happened to fall on their second wedding anniversary without telling Sarah. He'd meant it to be a surprise present to please her, and sure enough, she'd been ecstatic.

The concert consisted of a Rossini overture (a different one from the last time), a Tchaikovsky symphony, and a Paganini violin concerto to be performed in a debut concert by the new concertmaster, Sherlock Holmes. John scanned the man's bio quickly as he and Sarah waited for the house lights to dim. Born in England, trained in the Yehudi Menuhin School, studied abroad in France and Germany before coming back to take his seat as the youngest concertmaster in the LSO's history.

All rather impressive, or it would have been if John had known anything at all about musical training.

Sherlock Holmes was not the concertmaster for the evening—his standpartner took his place to lead the orchestra for the Rossini and the Tchaikovsky, both of which were less than exciting to John's untrained ear without Sherlock leading (although Sarah didn't seem to notice the difference)—but Sherlock finally arrived for his performance in the second half, following the conductor onto the stage with his trademark nod-bow and his violin and bow held carelessly in his hands as he waited for the piece to begin.

There was an old woodblock portrait of Paganini himself scanned into the evening's programme, a skeletally-thin man with wild dark hair flying as he seemed to attack his violin viciously. As John watched Sherlock Holmes perform Paganini's concerto onstage, it was almost as if the picture had come to life and jumped off the page to perform its piece itself. Sherlock swayed like one possessed, his bow slashing across the strings in one passage, tenderly drawing out a sobbing melody in another, his bony fingers flying up and down the instrument without stop.

And then, just at the end of one of the flashiest passages in the piece so far, at the top of a huge climactic crescendo—

—Sherlock's string snapped with a resounding twang that carried across the microphones and echoed in the hall.

An audible gasp went up from the audience, and John leaned forward and clutched at the seat in front of him in nervous anticipation. But Sherlock just tossed his head, a surprising lack of emotion on his face, and snatched the fiddle out of the hands of the acting concertmaster while dropping his own ruined one in the other man's lap. Without missing a beat, Sherlock tested the weight of the new violin in his hands and slid it under his chin just as the orchestra dropped out, before launching into a powerful and fiery cadenza that threatened to break the strings of the borrowed instrument as well.

John was one of the first to leap to his feet at the end of the concerto, yelling himself hoarse with cheers as if he were at a live rugby match. He wasn't alone; the entire hall had gone wild with whistles and shouts and endless applause, and John swore he saw some people tossing flowers at the stage, some of which landed at Sherlock's feet as he stood and passively accepted the praise.

The applause went on for what seemed like hours (John's arms were starting to get stiff from so much clapping) and Sherlock had come out to bow at least seven times before the audience finally calmed down and began to file out of the hall. John, however, turned to Sarah before his wife could slip into her coat. "I've an idea," he said, grinning. "Follow me?"

Sarah looked dubious, but she did follow as John made his way against the crowd, threading a slow path towards the side door to the left of the stage. "I met Mike Stamford at the box office last time, you remember him from Bart's, yeah?" he said to Sarah as they descended a spiral set of stairs, deep into the bowels of the orchestra hall. "He told me about the way backstage, said we could go meet the players after the concert whenever we wanted, he'd done it himself loads of times..."

"Oh, John!" Sarah squeezed John's elbow, and John allowed himself to feel a rush of pride. "What a wonderful idea! Do you think we can meet the concertmaster?"

"Only one way to find out, right?" The staircase had opened up into a white-walled corridor lined with doors, no doubt leading to dressing rooms, while men and women in black-and-white performance attire milled about. John tapped on the shoulder of one as he passed, a man John recognized from the trumpet section. "Beg pardon, but you wouldn't happen to know where I could find Sherlock Holmes, would you? A bit of a fan, just wanted to say hello—"

"Yeah, the concertmaster's dressing room is two doors on your right." The man shrugged. "I'm going to warn you right now, though, it's usually a bit odd, talking to him. Good luck with that."

"What do you mean, _odd?_ " John asked, but the trumpeter had already wandered off and Sarah was halfway to the designated dressing room (the door to which bore a paper sign reading, "CONCERTMASTER’S ROOM KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING") by then. By the time John had caught up with her, Sarah had followed the instruction to the letter, rapping on the plaster twice with her knuckles.

A minute later, a damp-haired Sherlock Holmes opened the door, the top of his shirt unbuttoned and suit jacket abandoned on the chair just past the doorway. He was nearly a head taller than John up close, and over a foot taller than Sarah. "Evening," he said, the simple pleasantry sounding forced. "You needed something?"

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes," Sarah gushed before John could say a word. "We just wanted to come back and meet you—we're fans, you know, absolutely loved your performance—"

"Thank you," Holmes interrupted, looking bored. He glanced at John before adding, "And congratulations on your second wedding anniversary."

Sarah gasped and turned to John. "You told him about us?" she asked, clearly assuming that this was still part of the surprise.

But John shook his head, confused. "No, I—I don’t think—" He turned to Holmes, still waiting patiently in the doorway. "How did you—?"

"Simple. Matching wedding rings, and—" Holmes nodded at the corsage behind Sarah's ear, a gift from John for the evening, and then pointed to the matching flower in John's buttonhole. "Lily-of-the-valley, which your florist no doubt gave you when you told her it was your anniversary. Of course, I'm surprised the missus is already starting to see someone else after two years, but then marriages are so much shorter than they used to be."

Sarah blanched, and John felt a dead weight drop in his stomach as if he'd been slugged. "E-excuse me?" Sarah stuttered. "What are you—what—"

"Oh, please, don't try to deny it. It's practically written all over you!" Holmes took a step closer to Sarah (who backed away) and sniffed the air deeply. "Your perfume is male, yet it doesn't match what your husband is wearing, which suggests you have a male lover. The brooch on your dress doesn't match any of the other jewellery you're wearing, while your earrings match your husband's cufflinks, which implies that the brooch was a gift from someone else. A tacky gift, if I may say so, since clearly the sapphire is fake and the silver is only plated, so either your lover was poor or a pennypincher. I'd guess the latter, since the perfume he used is of such high quality. In any case, I admire your bravery in wearing such a blatant expression of your infidelity on your bosom and expecting your husband not to notic—"

Sarah's fist, at first tightly balled by her sides while Holmes talked, suddenly flew towards the other man's face a moment before she punched him in the nose. Holmes never even had time to block or dodge the hit, as unexpected as it was; he staggered back into the dressing room, swearing loudly, his hands flying up to his face as blood started to steadily drip down his face—

John's medical instincts kicked in on automatic pilot, and he found himself pressing his own handkerchief against Holmes' nose (it didn't feel like it was broken, thank God, John didn't even want to think of the lawsuits that could come of breaking the nose of the concertmaster of the London Symphony), stopping the blood before any of it could stain the expensive performance suit the man was wearing. Holmes made a muffled grunt before grabbing John's arm, steadying the hand holding the handkerchief up to Holmes' face. John felt the long fingers easily wrapped around the circumference of his wrist, and (without understanding why) he shivered.

And then Holmes abruptly drew himself out of John's grasp and ducked back into his dressing room, with John's handkerchief still firmly held against his bleeding nose. The door slammed in John's face, leaving him standing outside the door empty-handed before he could even comprehend what had just happened.

When John turned around, he found Sarah standing just behind him, her eyes wide. A small crowd of other observers had been watching the scene until John faced them, at which point many of them immediately pretended that they hadn't been paying attention at all. "Oh, John, I'm so sorry," Sarah said, clearly trying not to cry. "It's just—he was so _rude_ and so hurtful and I just couldn't help myself—"

"It's fine, love," John said automatically, all the while his brain sputtered and rolled over and over in his head ( _and weren't you just asking yourself yesterday where Sarah goes to spend so much time on her lunch break?_ ). "Don't worry about it, it's fine. Everything's going to be all right."

And then he took Sarah home, drying her tears and reassuring her that he didn't believe a single word 'that crazy man' had said, though he was very careful not to touch her anywhere for the rest of the night.

* *

The first time John Watson bought concert tickets for the London Symphony without telling or inviting Sarah, he felt guilty.

The guilt, strangely enough, disappeared when he watched Sherlock Holmes performing onstage, and by the second and third and god-he-lost-track-after-the-fifth time John felt nothing but pleasure from going to the symphony by himself.

He never did go backstage to meet the violinist again, though. Mortifying enough that his own wife had punched the man in the face, but John didn't want to imagine what conclusions Holmes might come to if John showed up at his door alone.

And then John belatedly wondered when he'd come to worrying what the concertmaster of the London Symphony thought of him, deciding after another moment of sublimely beautiful music that it didn't really matter.

* *

The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes outside of the context of the concert stage was also the first time John heard Sherlock playing the violin for fun.

John had been walking home from the shops, a bag of shopping in each hand and his iPod plugged into one ear (he'd started to rent out as many classical music CDs from the public library as he could, and Sarah had complained while he'd put on a Brahms symphony over dinner one evening that sometimes a person wanted to have some soft rock for a change), when his free ear heard a separate strain of violin music drifting through the busy streets of London. He froze in mid-step, aware that people behind him were jostling both him and his bags as they passed, but at that point he was beyond caring.

Like the doomed rat led by the Pied Piper's music, John followed the haunting strains of violin melody with his ear alone until it led him to the base of an open second-story window. John stayed there for some time, entranced by the music, until said music suddenly stopped and a familiar face framed by wild dark hair popped out of the window and looked down.

"I can see you, you know," Sherlock Holmes said. "If you want to come up, the doorbell's right there."

John blinked, glanced at the door, and looked back up at Sherlock. "Right," he said, and shifted the bags into his arms so that he could reach out and press the buzzer for 221B (labeled "S. HOLMES" beside the little white button), because what else could anyone do in this situation?

Sherlock's head disappeared from the window, and John felt the doorknob buzz and unlock under his fingertips a moment later. He swung the door open and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor where Sherlock was standing in the open doorway with violin in hand, waiting for him.

John stopped at the top of the stairs, unsure of what to say or do next; and they remained that way for some time, the two of them staring at each other, until Sherlock said abruptly, "You're the man from the Paganini performance. Saturday evening. Your wife gave me a nosebleed."

"Yes," John said, because clearly it was fruitless to deny the charges. "Sorry about that, by the way, she normally never does anything quite so violent—"

Sherlock, however, waved away the apology. "People have done worse for less." He scrutinized John for a moment before declaring, "I see you haven't left her."

"I—what? Of course I haven't left her! She's my _wife!_ I'm not going to leave her just because someone accused her of infidelity to my face without any—" John pushed down his righteous outrage long enough to ask, "How can you tell all this, anyway?"

Sherlock looked mildly amused. "Tell all _what?_ "

"Everything! About me, about my wife—you're not some bloody psychic, are you?"

"Of course not, Mister—or do you prefer Doctor?"

"Doctor, but call me John," John replied absently before the words kicked in. "Wait, what?"

"Very well, John," Sherlock continued, looking as if he was trying to hide an amused (yet condescending) smile. "It's amazing, and quite frankly shocking, what the average human being misses when looking at another person or object for the first time. However, if one knows what to look for...observation can be a very powerful thing indeed." Sherlock paused. "You're surprised I knew you were a doctor."

"Well, uh, yeah, but—" John mentally groped for straws. "You probably figured that out because, uh, I helped with your nosebleed that one time—"

"Unlikely. That was basic first aid, and performed poorly if I may say so. I'd attribute that to shock from learning of your wife's infidelity." Sherlock pointed with his bow at John's waist, and then at his collar. "There is a bulge under your jacket just above your waistline, which is too small to be a walkie-talkie, thus from a pager clipped to your belt. I would assume, then, that you belonged to a profession which required you to be constantly in touch with your employers. Which profession? The creases around your neck and down the front of your shirt tell me 'physician,' as those creases are common among those in the medical profession from wearing a stethoscope."

"Wait a second," John interrupted, still trying to catch up. "My pager—how come you didn't think that was my mobile or something?"

"Because you clearly keep your mobile in the back right pocket of your trousers." Sherlock turned and walked back into his flat, leaving the door open and John staring at him open-mouthed from the landing outside (how had Sherlock known about his back pocket?). "Come in and shut the door behind you, if you're so inclined," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "I do hate getting a draft on my feet in this weather."

John closed his mouth and did as requested. "Wow," he said once he was safely inside the flat. "That—that was bloody _brilliant._ "

Sherlock turned and gave John a long look. "That's not what people normally say," he finally said.

"What do people normally say?"

" _Piss off._ " Sherlock cracked a small smile. "Or they punch me in the face."

John tried not to wince. "I really am sorry about that."

"And I say again, people have done worse for less." Sherlock put his violin back on his shoulder and started fiddling with the pegs. "What would you like?"

"Sorry?"

"What it must be like in your funny little brains, it must be so boring!" With a sudden squeal, Sherlock's peg wildly slipped, and Sherlock paused to wind it vengefully back into place. "You're in my flat, and you were obviously led here because of the fact that I like to practise with my windows open, and I have heard tell that it is only polite in usual society to offer refreshments of some sort or other when one has guests in one's flat, and as I have nothing else to offer at the moment, I ask you again. What would you like?"

John opened his mouth, closed it, set down his groceries at his feet, and removed his earbuds. "Whatever you were playing when I came up," he said, and Sherlock nodded.

"Tartini it is," Sherlock announced, and then there was music, oh, was there music, and John rocked back and forth on his heels and couldn't stop smiling.

* *

The first time John visited Sherlock's flat of his own volition, he came at teatime and provided the tea himself.

Sherlock was pleased, though he showed it in his usual passive and often-condescending fashion that John had quickly grown used to. And then Sherlock had started to play a tune that, for once in his life, John recognized.

"Oh! That's Lady Gaga!" John blurted out before he could stop himself.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "I beg your pardon?"

"Lady Gaga. Wait, don't you know her? The YouTube sensation? She's practically all over the internet—"

"I have no idea of what you speak," Sherlock interrupted stiffly. "I do not pretend to pay attention to such—irrelevancies—as popular culture. My hard drive can hardly afford to waste the space. Besides, I was playing Monti's Csardas, which I can assure you is far superior to this Gaga of yours."

John did not press the issue further. Nevertheless, when he returned to Sherlock's flat for tea the next day, he found Sherlock playing "Alejandro" on his violin, complete with left-finger bass plucking on the lower strings to accompany the melody line.

"The research was—fascinating," Sherlock allowed when John asked. "This Lady Gaga seems to have an unhealthy obsession with non-clothing. And guns."

"I think that was kind of the point. Normal, average people like guns and sex, you see," John said, and Sherlock only shrugged and launched into "Bad Romance" while John set up the pot and cups for two on the coffee table between them.

* *

The first time Sherlock gave John tickets to the symphony, John wasn't entirely sure what for. His expression probably gave it all away, for Sherlock simply sighed and started explaining, his bow waving in the air wildly as he talked.

"It's no secret that you've been coming to all of our concerts, John. And you clearly haven't bought season tickets yet, from the state of your trouser cuffs, so I thought I would save you the waste of money by giving you mine."

John wanted to ask what his trouser cuffs had to do with anything, but instead he said, "Yours? But you're performing..."

"Yes, yes, they give each player a complimentary season pass." Sherlock spoke as if nothing were the matter, but if John had known the other man any better, he would have said that Sherlock looked embarrassed. "Mine were rotting away in my desk, as it were, so better to put them to use than chuck them in the bin every week."

"Couldn't you have given it to, I don't know, your family?" John asked. He regretted the question almost as soon as it left his lips, for Sherlock's eyes suddenly darkened.

"I have none that would come," was all that Sherlock would say, before he turned and started to viciously hack away at what sounded like Mozart, John couldn't be sure.

John had Harry, so he knew the difference between 'not having family' and 'having none that would come' quite well, and so he kept his mouth shut. But he took the tickets home with him in any case, and he stored the pass booklet in the secret drawer of his desk in his office that not even Sarah knew about.

He didn't take them out to look at them every evening while he was working at home, and he most certainly did not think about the gift (for that's what it was, really, no matter how he looked at it) at the most inappropriate times, such as while in bed with Sarah.

"What are you smiling about?" she asked one night, and John quickly bit his lower lip to kill the expression.

"Nothing! Just—thinking about how lucky I am," he lied, and Sarah went to sleep, satisfied without knowing the part of the sentence that John had smartly left out.

* *

The first time John accompanied Sherlock backstage as a guest instead of as an audience member, he earned himself a talking to from a spontaneous committee of other orchestra members who were seemingly concerned for his well-being, mental or otherwise.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" demanded the principal flutist as John stood outside the dressing room, waiting for Sherlock to finish changing back into street clothes after yet another successful concert. "Whatever are you doing with—with someone like _him?_ "

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said defensively. "Sherlock's a perfectly nice fellow, if you give him a cha—"

" _Perfectly nice?_ " asked another violinist, incredulous. "He's off his rocker, and as arrogant as the devil to boot! Your own _wife_ slapped him, for God's sake, and you call him _perfectly nice?_ "

"I've heard he keeps posters of serial killers in his bedroom," a violist said conspiratorially. "He gets off on the strangest things. Better watch yourself, mister—you're hanging out with an honest-to-God psychopath, and nothing but ill can come of it."

The door behind John opened. "It's 'high-functioning sociopath,'" Sherlock said, now fully dressed and sounding condescendingly resigned. "If you lot insist on gossiping about me behind my back, do at least try to get your research straight."

The musicians scurried away at Sherlock's entrance, one or two daring to shoot sympathetic looks at John, who ignored them entirely and pushed himself off the wall to face Sherlock instead. "You ready?" he asked, more for a change of subject than out of actual inquiry. "Hungry? I know I am. Sarah doesn't expect me home until eleven, and there's a pub still open on Whitecross, I hear their ale is to die for—"

"John." Sherlock's tone stopped John's rambling, and John actually looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was watching him with something akin to—remorse? "You don't have to pity me, you know," Sherlock continued, apparently trying to sound either consoling or understanding and failing utterly at both. "I'm quite used to being on my own—the riffraff who call themselves my colleagues are certainly not very stimulating intellectually, so I daresay I've not missed much by never joining them on pub-crawls. You, however—"

Sherlock sighed and glanced away, fidgeting with his shirtsleeves. "But if you wish to take their advice, by all means do so. In a sense, they are right—being with me is never, shall we say, normal."

John blinked, opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then thought better of it and opened it again. "Absolutely not," he said, and the more he spoke, the louder and more determined his voice became. "You think—do you really think I'd listen to—to absolute rot like what they were just spewing out when they thought you couldn't hear them? If you do, then you weren't as brilliant as I thought you were, Mister Sherlock Holmes. I'll have you know, I can choose my own friends perfectly well without anyone else telling me what or what not to think, and I've already made my decision."

John took a breath then, and in that moment he saw Sherlock looking at him with a fresh gleam in his grey eyes. "So," John finished. "Are you ready?"

"When am I not?" Sherlock hefted his violin case over his shoulder and started walking down the corridor, with John at his side as they made their way towards the street exit two-abreast. "If you don't mind, I never drink."

"That's fine." John thought of Harry, and for a moment he allowed himself to be relieved. "Neither do I. We can get Chinese takeaway, if you'd rather. I know a place that's open until 2am."

"Indeed. You know, you can always tell the best Chinese place by the state of the bottom half of their doorknob..."

John allowed himself to be carried away by the sound of Sherlock's deep baritone, and he stepped out into the chilly London evening air feeling the warmest he'd felt inside since he left Afghanistan.

* *

The first time John was able to recognize a piece of classical music just by hearing alone, he was in a coffee shop near Bart's for lunch and sitting across from Mike Stamford, and the music coming from the shop's speakers was enough to distract John completely from the conversation at hand.

It was a short piece for solo violin and orchestra, one of Beethoven's two Romances. Sherlock had played it for John over tea just last Thursday, his eyes closed and fingers languorously drawing the bow across the strings for the more sensuous passages. The piece, John had thought at the time as he'd blown at his tea to cool it, had certainly lived up to its title.

Now, John considered as he sipped at his lukewarm coffee, the piece he heard from above him was not nearly as moving as it had been when Sherlock had performed it.

"Oi! Earth to Doctor Watson, are you there?"

John jolted back to reality to find Mike waving a hand in his face from across the table. "Sorry," John said, attempting to look apologetic and interested in the subject at hand. "I had a moment. You were saying?"

"Good to have you back," Mike said dryly. "I was only asking when Sarah'll be having her baby."

John, who'd just brought his coffee cup back to his lips, sputtered loudly. "I—what— _when?_ "

"You mean she isn't?" Mike leaned back in his chair, hands stuffed in his pockets, to better study John from a different angle. "It's just—you've been looking much more perky lately. S'almost like—you're glowing, y'know? I just thought, well, maybe that night at the symphony did you two some good, the missus gave you the news, something like that..."

"No, not at all," John replied absently, still wiping off the brown spatter of coffee now adorning his tie, and still thinking about Sherlock as the music continued to play overhead.

* *

The first time John and Sarah ever fought in their two-plus years of marriage, it was about Sherlock, and the spat was also their last.

It had all come as a complete surprise to John, though in hindsight he supposed he should have suspected something when he came home from the surgery one night (he hadn't gone to Sherlock's that day which, given the circumstances, had actually been a blessing) to find Sarah already waiting for him with a roast in the oven and the table set for two, with the scented candles already flickering beside the vase of wildflowers he'd bought earlier that week.

He should have been suspicious at that point—a romantic candlelit dinner on a Thursday for no reason? Sherlock would have been ashamed of John's blindness to obvious detail; but instead he walked right into the trap set for him, enjoying the delicious meal until Sarah suddenly set down her fork and knife across her unfinished plate, crossing the two pieces of silverware like the two arms of a cross.

"John, I'm sorry," Sarah began. Her voice was deceptively calm, almost monotonous, and it made John pause with his fork halfway to his mouth. "I'm sorry, but I just can't do this any more."

John swallowed hard. "What? Sarah, what are you talking—"

"Something's changed," Sarah continued. "I've been trying to ignore it, I thought maybe I was just imagining things and everything would be back to normal tomorrow, but—tomorrow never came, John. And I don't think I can keep this up any longer. This wasn't what I expected when I proposed to you, and I can understand if you're not interested anymore, but—"

"Sarah, no!" John clutched at Sarah's hand, his fork and knife clattering forgotten to the tabletop. "Sarah, it's not you, I swear it isn't," he said earnestly. "I love you just as much as the day we married, I promise. Look, if you want me to do something differently, anything, I'll do it. I'll stop working so many hours, take you out more, stop going to Sherlock's for tea as much—"

Sarah suddenly went very still, making John's desperate babbling come to an abrupt halt. "Sherlock," she said, slowly. "You mean, Sherlock Holmes. The concertmaster." At John's reluctant nod, Sarah added with not a small touch of vindictiveness, "The man who told us I was cheating on you."

"Yes! No! I mean—" John vainly wished that he'd just kept his mouth shut, but nevertheless he pressed on. "Look, I know he didn't come across very well at first, but he really is a good person if you give him a chance. And I know what he said, but I've never believed a word of it, trust me."

Sarah remained silent, not meeting John's eyes, and as the seconds ticked by John felt his confidence waver. "Sarah?"

"He was right, though," Sarah mumbled, pulling her hand out of John's reach and fisting them in her napkin. "At that time, anyway. It was just—you were like this even before you met him, but now it's worse, and back then I only wanted to see if someone else would be different, but I broke it up ages ago and it hasn't happened again, I swear!"

"It—it doesn't matter," John said, finding (to his surprise) that it really didn't. "We can get through this, I know we can. We can even go through marriage counseling, if you want!"

But Sarah shook her head. "We don't need counseling," she said. "All I want—John, if you really want to give us another try, I need you to stop seeing Sherlock Holmes."

John felt his mouth go dry. "W-what?" he croaked. "But—why? I've only been having _tea_ with him, for God's sake!"

"But that's exactly the problem!" Sarah let out an explosive breath. "You've been distant before, sure, but it was never this bad for this long, not until we went to the bloody symphony and met _him._ I don't mind if you want to go to his concerts, I'll even go with you if you want—but I've seen what happens when you let him into your life, and I can't—this isn't the John Watson I fell in love with. If you want me, then you can't keep him on the side. It's just that simple."

Yes, it was that simple. Or was it?

John tried to form the right words with his mouth, tried to tell Sarah _yes, I'll do it, giving up Sherlock is nothing compared to having you,_ but his lips and tongue resisted when he couldn't even convince his heart that it was true. How could he give up Sherlock—brilliant, unique, lonely Sherlock—give up Sherlock's music, Sherlock's companionship, and at the same time give up one of the few things John had come to look forward to from day to day for the past months?

As if on cue, John's iPod (which John had set to play Tchaikovsky's "Pathétique" as soft background music for the evening) suddenly came to an end, leaving the flat shrouded with silence as the machine searched for a new track. And just like that, John was struck with a vision of what his life would be like ten years into the future, with him sitting across from Sarah at the same table over the same plates of cold dinner, surrounded by a silent void they could not—would not break.

The worst part was that in that void there would be none of the music John had come to appreciate and love, and it left John's soul aching for a different future, one that was slowly taking shape before his very eyes as the present silence stretched on and on and Sarah's hopeful expression slowly crumbled.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, feeling something in his chest throb in sympathy with the shattering of Sarah's dreams. "Sarah, I'm—"

"Get out."

John didn't need telling twice. (And if he were honest with himself, maybe he never needed telling at all.)

* *

The first time John arrived at Sherlock's doorstep in the middle of the night with a newly-purchased bag of toiletries from Tesco in his hands, Sherlock did not once mention Sarah. He studied John from head to foot for a good minute, though, and John suspected that Sherlock knew but was kind enough not to say anything.

"I have a spare room upstairs," was all Sherlock did say. John nodded and made his way past Sherlock inside the flat, pausing on the steps only when Sherlock called up to him, "You don't mind the violin?"

John hesitated, one foot already on the next step, before settling on the truth. "Never," he said.

John fell asleep in a bed that was not his, with the strains of Bach's mournful Ciaccona floating through the half-closed doorway, and to his surprise it just felt _right._

* *

The first time Sherlock took on a real "case," it was basically John's idea.

The opportunity had, almost literally, fallen straight into Sherlock's lap. One of the richest donors to the symphony, a CEO of one of London's largest banks and a fairly decent violinist if rumours were to go by, had offered to loan his recently acquired Stradivarius to Sherlock for one of Sherlock's solo performances with the orchestra.

Unfortunately, on the morning before the concert, Sherlock received a tearful call from Mr. Alexander Holder himself, stating that the violin had been stolen during the night—Mr. Holder's layabout son being suspected of the crime, having been found at the scene with a half-crushed replacement violin still in his hands—and the deal would unfortunately have to be cancelled, as it would be impossible to recover the stolen goods before the concert's deadline.

"Impossible, my foot," Sherlock fumed, slamming his BlackBerry back on the coffee table. He had been, as per his usual tradition for that time of day, warming up in the living room in his pyjamas and dressing gown; John had been puttering about the kitchen, making breakfast and packing himself lunch before work while doing his best not to eavesdrop (and failing). "I swear, the whole of Scotland Yard is staffed with incompetents! Clearly it wasn't the son!"

"Then who was it?" John called back from the kitchen, already turning towards the steaming coffee machine.

Another huff from Sherlock, and a loud _thump_ told John that Sherlock had thrown himself down on the couch in frustration. "I don't know, and I never will unless I actually _was_ the detective on this gods-bedamned case!"

"Why don't you?" When he was only greeted by silence from the living room, John added, "Why don't you try, I mean. You know, being a detective. I think you'd make a brilliant one. You'd probably be able to tell who did it just by looking at their collar and their knees or something."

"Funny thing." Sherlock's head suddenly appeared in the doorway, and John nearly jumped out of his skin, knocking over a whole loaf of sliced bread in the process. "When I was young," Sherlock continued, ignoring John frantically attempting to beat the five-second rule, "when I was growing up, I always wanted to be a consulting detective. The world's first, you see. But I quickly discovered upon leaving the conservatory that work as a consulting detective hardly suffices to pay the bills. And so I became a musician. My brother never really did forgive me."

"Well, money certainly isn't an issue anymore, is it?" John finished scooping up the fallen bread from the floor and looked up at Sherlock with a grin. "I think it sounds like fun."

John would come to regret the latter statement by the next evening, when he wound up being dangled by the ankles upside-down over the Thames by the psychotic boyfriend of Mr. Holder's niece who had turned out to be the real thief. But Sherlock's quick actions and surprising knowledge of martial arts had been enough to secure John's safe release, and Sherlock was playing Vieuxtemps Five on the newly-recovered Strad just under an hour later.

And to top it off, Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard had been highly impressed by Sherlock's accurate (if slightly unorthodox) methods and had offered Sherlock a job right in the middle of London Bridge. But Sherlock only sniffed and pulled his coat tighter around him.

"I am in no need of steady employment, Inspector," he said with his usual acerbic air. "I will do this for my enjoyment, on my own time. However, if you come across any cases that are out of your league—which, I might add, is always—feel free to text."

From his seat halfway inside the ambulance, John had to bury his sniggers in the orange blanket the paramedics had given him to ward off shock. Sherlock heard the noise and glanced over, and John was certain that he saw his flatmate give him the slightest of winks.

* *

The first time John kissed Sherlock, it was seven minutes after the first time John killed a man outside of Afghanistan that wasn't in self-defense.

When John finally made it to the proper building and room, Sherlock was still there, standing with one foot propped on the dead cabbie's shoulder, deep in thought. He hadn't seemed to notice that half the floor at his feet had already succumbed to the slowly-spreading pool of blood.

"For God's—sake, Sherlock!" John wheezed, one hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath. God, he hadn't run like that since training camp. "Don't ever—do that again! Getting into—that cab—he was a serial killer! You knew that! And then you—I can't believe it, you were really going to take the pill, weren't you?"

"Good shot," Sherlock said.

"I don't even—what? Sherlock, don't change the subject! He was trying to kill you, and you were going to let him!"

"And in order to prevent that, you killed him. You did it—for me." Sherlock tilted his head to the side, like he did when he studied a new cadaver that proved essential to solving a case. "In all my life, no one—not even my own brother—would kill a man to protect me. You are a very fascinating person, John Watson, do you realize that?"

John felt his jaw drop slightly at Sherlock's bald admission that no one else in the world cared—no one else _loved_ Sherlock as much as John did. Granted, Sherlock wasn't the most socially-acceptable person in the world, sometimes he was downright rude and a total dick and John wanted nothing more than to suffocate him in his sleep, but really? No one?

And then John shook himself, stepped forward, and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders before kissing his flatmate firmly on the mouth. Inside John's head, cymbals crashed and trumpets blared in a triumphant fanfare, and Sherlock's lips tasted like copper and adrenaline and Bach and John's tongue could hardly get enough of it all at once.

Sherlock surprised him by kissing back, forcefully, hands snaking around John's waist to pull him closer. John obeyed, ignoring the blood pooling around them as he slowly pressed himself closer to Sherlock's body, hands drifting down from the shoulders across the chest to—

John's hand froze when it hit something balled-up and lumpy in Sherlock's inside jacket pocket. He reached deeper to explore—Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, but didn't object, as distracted as he was—and slowly extracted out a small length of cloth, about the right size for a handkerchief.

John broke the kiss, gasping a little for air, and looked down at his hand to find himself holding the bloodstained napkin he'd used to stop Sherlock's nosebleed the first time they had met. It felt like so long ago, yet John still remembered the feel of Sherlock's fingers gripping his wrist, the now-dried blood seeping through the cloth to his own fingers, the rush of air in his face when Sherlock had slammed the door.

"You. You kept. You kept it." John swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "All this time. You kept it."

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes were searching him out—as perceptive as they always were, and yet they looked lost, confused, _frightened_ as they flickered from the bloodied handkerchief to John's face and back again. "You aren't—you aren't mad, are you?"

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment before he burst out laughing.

"You idiot," he said, very fondly, and then John shoved Sherlock against the nearest lab table and kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
>  PLAYLIST FOR "IN SEARCH OF A WORD"
> 
> [Click here to play on YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=D94F9CD8688D9213)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (1) Richard Strauss: Don Juan, Op.20 [John's first orchestra concert, with Sherlock's violin solo]  
> (2) Niccolò Paganini: Violin Concerto No.1, Op.6 [Sherlock's first performance with orchestra]: I. Allegro maestoso  
> (3) Johannes Brahms: Symphony No.4, Op.98 [John's background music on his way past Baker St.]: I. Allegro non troppo  
> (4) Giuseppe Tartini: "Devil's Trill" Sonata [what leads John to Sherlock and 221B]: I. Larghetto affettuoso – II. Allegro moderato – III. Andante – IV. Allegro assai  
> (5) Vittorio Monti: Czardas [what John mistook for Lady Gaga]  
> (6) Lady Gaga: "Alejandro" (à la Vitamin String Quartet) [a version of Lady Gaga for string quartet]  
> (7) Ludwig von Beethoven: Romance No.2, Op.50 [background music at coffeeshop with Mike Stamford]  
> (8) Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky: Symphony No.6 "Pathétique," Op.74 [background music to John & Sarah's argument]: IV. Finale: Adagio lamentoso  
> (9) Johann Sebastian Bach: Ciaccona, BWV 1004 [what John fell asleep to after leaving Sarah]  
> (10) Henri Vieuxtemps: Violin Concerto No.5, Op.37 [Sherlock's performance on the stolen Strad]: I. Allegro non troppo – II. Adagio – III. Allegro con fuoco  
> (11) BONUS TRACK – Pyotr Ilych Tchaikovsky: Violin Concerto, Op. 35 [not one of the pieces performed in the story, but what I consider the overall soundtrack to this fic. Tchaikovsky was gay but very closeted due to the cultural/political stigma of homosexuality in that period of Russian history, and his music often reveals the tormented emotional struggle of his forbidden love. I've been playing this piece for a year now, and I must say that nothing brings out the true colors of this movement in particular like envisioning some of my favorite slash pairings. :D]: I. Allegro moderato


End file.
